


Fire and Night

by voxanonymi (spasmodicIntrigue)



Series: Ignoct Week 2018 [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: :), Angst, Banter, Childhood, Episode Ignis, Existential Angst, Fluff, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Ignoct Week, M/M, Nightmares, Stasis, Vomiting, but not literally because this is rated gen, chapter two: flipping off the concept of fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-18 11:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13680855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasmodicIntrigue/pseuds/voxanonymi
Summary: Ignis is twenty-two years old, and all the astronomy books he’s ever read insist that the world revolves around the sun. A long time ago he realised thathisworld follows a different logic. His world revolves around the boy with eyes that mimic the spectrum of the sky; who shares a name with the night.There's nothing Ignis wouldn't give. For fifteen years, he's known that.





	1. First Verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignoct Week Day 7—  
> > _Simple: "Always."_
> 
> Welp. Better late than never?

Ignis is seven years old, and he still feels like his place in the prince’s life is temporary. Something he could lose at any time if the grownups decide he’s not good enough. The knowledge sits on the edge of his awareness, because he’s only just decided that he really _wants_ to be in Noctis’ life. If they took that away from him now, he’s not sure what he’d do.

He’s also not sure what exactly it is that makes him want to stay with Noctis. He just knows that when Noctis giggles and grins at him, Ignis grins too. And when Noctis reaches over and takes his hand when the Governess takes them for a walk in the gardens, Ignis feels happy. When Noctis falls, scrapes his knee, and starts to cry, Ignis cries, too. When Noctis leans into him as they flip through _The Littlest Chocobo_ together, Ignis feels warm, and when Noctis falls asleep, curled against his shoulder, Ignis falls asleep soon after.

He understands that he loves Noctis, and though he’s somehow (frustratingly) unsure what that really _means_ , he figures that it’s probably why he’s determined to prove himself. Prove that he’s good enough to stay with the prince forever—if Noctis wants him to, that is, and Ignis thinks perhaps he does.

The creak of his bedroom door wakes him up. Ignis freezes, not knowing whether or not he was imagining things, or if someone (some _thing_ ) is in his room. But then he hears the tiny, broken voice: “Iggy?”

Ignis sits up and fumbles for the lamp on his bedside table. He flicks it on. Noctis, standing in the doorway shivering, shields his eyes at the sudden flare of light.

“What’s wrong?” Ignis asks.

Noctis fiddles with the hem of his rumpled pyjama shirt. “Can I sleep with you?”

Ignis nods and shuffles over, patting the bed beside him. Noctis forgets to close the door as he runs over and scrambles up into Ignis’ bed, worming under the covers to get warm. He buries his face in Ignis’ stomach, clenching his fists in his shirt.

“Bad dream,” he whimpers.

Ignis frowns, putting his arms around Noctis and rubbing his back to try warm him up faster—the way he’d seen adults do. “What happened?”

Noctis shakes his head, then tells him anyway. “A big dragon,” he whispered, “made of _swords_ , told me I have to die.” His breath hitched, and he sniffled, looking up at Ignis with wide, watery eyes, bluer than the sky. “I don’t wanna die, Iggy!”

“You won’t,” Ignis tells him with certainty, pulling him closer. “I’ll protect you from the sword-dragon.”

“But how?”

That requires a bit of thinking. Ignis _wants_ to protect Noctis, but he doubts he could actually win against a dragon made of swords. How could you beat _swords_?

“I’ll learn to use fire magic,” he says, “and melt all the swords.”

Noctis cracks a small smile. “Okay,” he says, hands relaxing in Ignis’ shirt.

Ignis smiles back, and leans over to turn off the lamp. Darkness sweeps in, and Noctis wraps his arms around Ignis’ middle, burying his face once more.

“Iggy?” he asks, voice muffled.

Ignis can feel Noctis’ breath on his sternum, through the thin material of his pyjama shirt. “Yes?”

“Will you stay with me forever?”

“Of course, Noct,” Ignis answers immediately, patting Noctis’ head. “Always.”

 

Ignis is ten years old, and though he’s smart and rational enough to _know_ that what none of what happened to Noctis—the Marilith attack; the invasion of Tenebrae—was his fault, he’s young enough to believe that none of it would have happened if he’d _been there_. It at least would have gone differently, he’s certain.

Noctis barely talks anymore, but he still climbs into Ignis’ bed when he has nightmares. That’s almost every night, now. All too frequently, he falls back to sleep beside Ignis only to wake again a short while later, crying out, (in pain or fear or both, Ignis isn’t sure,) arms and legs flailing wildly. He only calms down when Ignis manages to firmly twine both arms around him and hold him still.

Breaths little more than panicked gasps, Noctis trembles in Ignis’ arms for a long time before he tentatively reciprocates the tight hug.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Ignis asks.

Noctis vehemently shakes his head.

Ignis can’t help the small sigh that escapes him. He misses when Noctis used to _tell_ him his bad dreams. “Try to go back to sleep.”

“Will you stay?” Noctis’ voice wavers so badly, Ignis has to pause a second to figure out what was said.

When he does, he presses his cheek into Noctis’ hair and whispers, “Always.”

 

Ignis is fifteen years old, and in the past year he’s become self-aware about a certain trait of his: he worries a lot. Specifically, about Noctis—because it’s his duty to worry about him, yes, but also because the ever-aloof prince offers plentiful cause for concern.

Noctis has just turned fourteen, has been going to public school for a while now, and yet seems to have no friends. This worries Ignis, because all the literature he’s read points to friends being important to one’s happiness. Essential, even.

“Who do you sit with at lunch?” he asks one day, as they sit in the back seat on the ride home.

“Myself,” says Noctis.

Ignis frowns. “Does… no one want to sit with you?”

“Basically everyone wants to sit with me. I’m the prince.” He doesn’t sound bitter, he just sounds… blank.

“But you don’t want to sit with them,” Ignis says, hoping his exasperation isn’t leaking into his voice.

“Nope,” says Noctis, and then pulls out his phone in an obvious attempt to end the conversation.

Ignis watches him for a while, then decides to take a more direct approach. “I’m worried, Noct.”

Noctis peers up at him. “What about?”

“You.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Noctis scoffs.

The urge to roll his eyes is strong ( _you asked, I answered, Noct_ ), but Ignis knows that meeting attitude with attitude will only end in an argument—it’s happened before. “It appears to me that you are isolating yourself from your peers,” he says matter-of-factly. An unemotional approach seems the best way to go, here. “I’m concerned about the underlying cause, and the eventual effect it may have on your health.”

Noctis does not have the self-control that Ignis does. He rolls his eyes, in a massively exaggerated fashion that sends up a spark of irritation in Ignis’ head. “The ‘ _underlying cause_ ’ is that none of those people want to be friends with _me_. They want to be friends with the Crown Prince.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t. But I can feel it.”

“ _Feel_ it? Noct, that’s—”

“It’s the way they look at me,” Noctis continues, looking up from his phone to stare at the back of the driver’s headrest. “Like I’m different from them. I mean, I am. But. It’s like they don’t see me as a person.”

Ignis’ mouth rapidly comes to resemble a desert: dry and grainy. “Noct…”

Noctis shakes his head. “I don’t care. I don’t need friends. I’ve got you, right?” He looks sideways at Ignis. “Or are you just my babysitter now?”

“Of course I’m your friend, Noct!” He can’t help but feel a little hurt that Noctis would ever doubt that fact. “Of course you have me. Always.”

“Well, then,” Noctis sighs. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

 

Ignis is seventeen years old, and he still worries. Ever since Noctis turned sixteen and started warp-training, the worry has become so constant that he sometimes wakes in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, for no reason he can discern other than the knot in his stomach and the name swirling through his mind: _Noct._

The first time Noctis goes into stasis is a prolonged, sleepless affair. As Ignis understands it, he’s done well to last so long without running dry of magical energy—three weeks, in fact. But Ignis also understands that this training his been a source of great frustration for Noctis. Warping, it seems, does not come naturally to him.

Nothing seems wrong, at first. In fact, Noctis seems as tired as ever but a lot more cheerful on the drive home.

“I’m not sure I really _liked_ the feeling of, like… dispersing into a million bits and then being put back together, but it was pretty cool, anyway,” Noctis explains, telling Ignis of his first successful warp. “Sort of. I dunno. I’m just glad I’m finally getting the hang of it.”

“It _is_ good news,” Ignis agrees sincerely.

“I was worried that…” Noctis turns his head towards the passenger-side window so his face is hidden from Ignis’ view. “I thought I might not be able to do it at all.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Ignis hums, “most especially patience with oneself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Noctis, but he turns to Ignis with a smile. A comfortable silence falls swiftly between them.

Noctis rolls his shoulders and fidgets in his seat. “Man, I _ache_ , though,” he mutters.

Ignis frowns. He’s not Kingsglaive, so he’s no expert on warping, but he’s learned all he could and is pretty certain that’s not a usual thing. “A side effect of exhaustion, I imagine,” he reasons aloud.

“Probably.”

Once Ignis has parked, Noctis stumbles when he gets out of the car, bracing himself against the door.

“Noct?”

“I’m fine,” he insists, pressing a hand briefly to his head as he rights himself. “Side effect of exhaustion, like you said.”

Ignis frowns, but says, “Right,” and keeps a close eye on Noctis as they walk to the elevator. It’s an unnecessary habit of Ignis’ to make sure Noctis gets safely into his apartment, but though the prince complained about it when he’d first moved in, he understands that it’s mainly for the sake of Ignis’ conscience.

“Are you quite sure you feel okay?” Ignis probes as they step out onto the top floor. He’s not sure if he didn’t notice until a couple of minutes ago, or what, but Noctis looks unusually pale, skin glistening with sweat. His jaw quivers as if he’s forcibly keeping his teeth from chattering with cold, though the ongoing tremor through his shoulders is one he’s failed to suppress.

Noctis’ brow furrows, as if seriously considering the question. He swallows. “I don’t… Why am I…” Then a shudder goes through him, and Ignis rushes to grab him as he crumples.

“Noct!” But it seems Noctis is beyond hearing: limp and shaking, eyelids cracked open just enough to show a thin band of bloodshot sclera, breath coming in threaded gasps that sound like far too much effort. Ignis struggles to get a good hold on him as they descend towards the hallway carpet. Soon enough, he’s cradling Noctis in his lap, patting his cheek and trying to get some sort of response.

To tell the truth, he’s completely terrified. Ignis, however, has not received accolades as one of the most talented young tacticians in a long while for no reason. That part of his brain, the Ignis which is all strategy and planning and organisation, notices instantly that Noctis’ skin is cold. Far too cold for this to be a regular illness. That same part of his brain connects the evidence to a file Ignis has recently read in the Citadel’s archives. _Common symptoms of stasis include headache, body aches, nausea with or without vomiting, excessive sweating, and shortness of breath. Extreme or excessive magic drain may cause unconsciousness and/or spontaneous hypothermia._ And though he’s a little confused that Noctis was showing none of these symptoms ten, twenty minutes ago, he realises there’s no point in panicking and calling emergency services.

Instead, he pulls Noctis fully into his arms and attempts to stand—stumbling and nearly dropping him, having underestimated the added ungainliness of dead weight. Noctis is still quite small, but Ignis is certain he’d be a lot easier to carry if his head weren’t lolling and limbs hanging uselessly.

It’s a struggle, but Ignis gets him into his apartment and into bed, tucking the blankets up to his chin—adding a few spares from the linen cupboard. Then he turns the apartment inside-out searching for an ether. Clearly, Noctis doesn’t keep them on hand, which is something Ignis will need to talk to him about once he’s better.

He checks in on Noctis again, ignoring the uncomfortable clenching in his chest when he sees no change. He sits on the edge of the bed, finally pulling out his phone to call the Citadel’s medical bay. He tells them who he is, and is quickly redirected to the doctor.

_“How can I help you?”_

“Ignis Scientia speaking,” Ignis says. His voice is gravelly, so he clears his throat before continuing. “Prince Noctis seems to have gone into a sort of… delayed stasis, from his warp-training today.”

_“Oh, dear,”_ says the doctor. _“Have you given him an ether?”_

“I haven’t any.”

The doctor hums. _“I’m not sure that would help much, anyway.”_

“Well, why not?” Ignis doesn’t mean for the words to come out so harshly.

The doctor, luckily, is very patient with him. _“We see this sometimes with new Kingsglaive recruits,”_ she explains. _“Warping is essentially the instantaneous deconstruction and reconstruction of the human body, via the Crystal’s power.”_ Yes, yes, Ignis _knows_ this already. _“On occasion, the first time a warp is completed, the subject’s magic continues to drain until they fall into stasis. We’re not entirely sure why this happens, to be honest with you. We suspect that the Glaive’s—or in this case, the prince’s—magic is overcompensating on the reconstruction side. Making sure that the body has been fully reassembled.”_

Ignis takes a moment to absorb this information. Reports either haven’t been published on it yet, or he simply hasn’t come across the journal in which he might find them. “So why would an ether not help?

_“It might… but the success rate of ether against first stasis is low. It depends on the magic capability of the individual. Before reaching first stasis, an individual’s capacity for the Crystal’s power is an unknown quantity. An ether easily clears first stasis in those with low capacity, but it hardly scratches the surface of those with higher capacity—the magic must replenish organically.”_

“And…” Ignis glances at Noctis, whose left eyebrow has started to twitch. “Considering this is the prince we’re discussing…”

The doctor hums severely. _“Yes. I’m afraid he’s in for a rough night. Are you able to get him here?”_

Ignis thinks about how much of a struggle it was just to get Noctis down the hall. “No. He’s unconscious, and mildly hypothermic.”

_“All that can really be done is keep him warm and comfortable and… well, wait it out. I’ll send someone to check his vitals and see what difference an ether makes.”_

“Please do.”

_“And… shall I have his Majesty informed?”_

Ignis is reluctant to worry King Regis, but knows he has a right to know what is happening with his son. “If you could.”

_“Of course. Take care, Master Scientia. Call again if you have questions.”_

After hanging up, Ignis sits there on the side of Noctis’ bed for a long while. Not much really goes through his head, because the realisation that he can do nothing but stay by Noctis’ side and treat his symptoms and _wait_ has ground his mental scrambling for a solution to a solid halt. So he sits there with tar in his stomach until he’s startled out of his anxious reverie by a knock at the door.

The nurse takes Noctis’ vitals and tells Ignis that though his body temperature is abnormally low and his respiratory rate high, his heart rate and blood pressure are normal—a good sign. The nurse then cracks an ether over Noctis, and both he and Ignis watch nervously as the prince’s breathing hitches and slows slightly, though he remains unconscious. No other change.

“I can stay and look after him, if you’d like to go home and get some rest,” the nurse tells Ignis. “This _is_ my job, after all.”

Ignis knows there’s no point in saying yes, even for the sake of his own health: he won’t be able to sleep. “Noctis is my responsibility,” he says. “I’d… like to be sure he’s alright.”

The nurse nods understandingly and leaves Ignis with some advice, a case of ethers, and a sincere, “Good luck.”

After seeing him out, Ignis returns to Noctis’ bedside, sitting again on the edge of the mattress and reaching out to brush the back of his fingers against Noctis’ cheek, feeling his temperature. Still far too cold, but unless Ignis is imagining things, or his own hands have gone chill from anxiety, Noctis isn’t as icy as he was when he first collapsed.

Just as Ignis withdraws his hand, Noctis lets out a tiny groan, eyelids sliding open. His eyes are more grey than Ignis has ever seen them, yet still they remind him of the sky—a sky occluded by stormclouds.

“Noct?” Ignis asks softly. “How do you feel?”

Noctis groans again. “Bad,” he manages.

That was a _little_ obvious, but Ignis doesn’t point it out. Despite whimpered protests, he helps Noctis sit up. “You need to stay hydrated,” he tells him, retrieving a large glass of water from the bedside table and placing it in Noctis’ hands. Except, Noctis’ hands are limp and sweaty, and Ignis doesn’t trust them to keep a good grip on the glass. He keeps a guiding hold on it as Noctis takes small sips.

“You’ve fallen into stasis,” Ignis explains, setting the glass back on the bedside table once Noctis has struggled through half of it. “I’ll explain more tomorrow, when you feel better.”

Noctis nods slowly. Then his eyes fly wide, and Ignis knows what’s about to happen before it does—so, luckily, he’s able to grab the large bowl he’d pre-emptively placed on the floor earlier, and shove it in front of Noctis just as he retches and loses the half-glass of water along with an equal amount of egg yolk-coloured bile. Ignis has to turn his head away from the smell, but adjusts how he’s sitting so he can keep one hand on the bowl (praying that there’s no splashback) and one hand rubbing circles on Noctis’ back.

After the initial eruption, Noctis heaves painfully a few more times with no result. Then he slumps half into his pillows and half into Ignis’ shoulder. His breathing is heavy and the quaking in his limbs nearly upsets the sick-bowl.

Holding Noctis steady, Ignis carefully sets the bowl on the floor, making a mental note not to kick it over or step in it. Then he picks up the glass of water again, and coaxes Noctis into finishing it. That done, Ignis helps him lie back down, pulling the blankets up and running a hand over his sweat-sodden hair.

“Sleep,” Ignis says.

Noctis blinks slowly at him. “Stay?” he slurs.

“Always,” Ignis says.

“Good,” says Noctis, as his eyes drift shut.

 

Ignis is twenty years old, and he’s understood for a while now that worry for Noctis will probably be sitting somewhere in his mind for the rest of his life—even if there’s seemingly nothing to worry _about_.

“It’s just a party, Specs,” Noctis insists, not even deigning to look up from his phone. He’s half-lying on the couch in his apartment as Ignis does the dishes, not even changed out of his work uniform.

“To you, perhaps,” says Ignis. “But for any so-called journalists on social media who come across photographs of the Crown Prince at this ‘party’, it’s another opportunity to run sensationalist tabloids.”

“Everyone knows those headlines are clickbait,” says Noctis. “They’re just trying to get the ad revenue.”

Ignis sighs deeply. “I’d thought by turning eighteen and becoming an adult, you might graduate from your ‘nothing fazes me’ phase,” he says. “I know for a fact you hate those tabloids.”

“Adult? What’s that?” says Noctis. “Of _course_ I hate the tabloids. Nothing I can do about ‘em, though. No point in letting them stop me from having fun.”

“Parties have lots of people, Noct. You hate places with lots of people.”

That, at least, gets Noctis to put his phone down while he thinks of an appropriate answer. He shrugs. “Yeah, but. Prompto wants to go.”

“Nothing’s stopping him.”

“I can’t make him go _alone_.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m his best friend?”

Ignis frowns. Now _he_ has to think of an appropriate answer. “I didn’t think Prompto was really one for parties, either.”

Noctis sits up properly. “I think he just wants to fit in.”

“And… going to a party is the way to do that?”

“Maybe? What would _I_ know about fitting in?”

“More than I, presumably.”

Noctis blinks, then raises his eyebrows. “Whoa. Did you just… admit that I know something you don’t?”

Ignis rolls his eyes. “If you’ll recall, my entire education was conducted in isolation from the majority of my peers, so that I might complete it much sooner. I never went to public school and learned this phenomenon of ‘fitting in’.”

“Huh,” Noctis says. “That’s… sorta sad.”

“Spare me.”

“I can’t really picture you in public school, anyway. But if you’re right, and Prompto _doesn’t_ like parties, then he probably won’t learn that until we’ve been to at least one.”

There _is_ logic to it. Though Prompto Argentum has always struck Ignis as quite stubborn; not the sort to give up after a failed first attempt. Regardless, Ignis can’t _stop_ Noctis from going, so if he’s set on it… “I suppose so,” he says reluctantly.

Noctis smiles. “Knew you’d come around, Specs,” he says. “And if I hate it, I can always just dial you to come rescue me.”

“Always,” Ignis chuckles. “I’ll come running with my motorised, leather-upholstered steed,” he continues, “to save the prince from the clutches of socialisation.”

“Swoon,” says Noctis, then they both laugh.

 

Ignis is twenty-two years old, and with all that has happened since Insomnia’s fall, every instinct has been screaming at him to grab hold of Noctis and keep him safe in the shield of his arms. But he knows it’s just his emotions trying to get the better of him. He knows that in order to reclaim the Crystal and liberate Lucis, Noctis must subject himself to danger. The danger of battle; the strain of the Royal Arms; the pain of proving his worthiness to the gods.

Ignis knows that Noctis wants to help his people. That he feels a responsibility he can’t put words to—Ignis _understands_ this, and he too would give much to see their homes restored, their families safe and well, their fellow Lucians free of Imperial oppression. But he would give _everything_ if it meant Noctis could be relieved of these burdens and troubles.

One night, Ignis can’t sleep. He sits in the corner of the tent watching Noctis’ eyelids twitch as he dreams (good dreams, Ignis hopes, though he knows they probably are not). He thinks that perhaps his perceptions are dangerously skewed, that he took his childhood self-assignation of ‘protect Noctis, keep him safe’ far too seriously, and now he can’t see past that ingrained _need_ to do so. He can’t see the bigger picture, the long-run. He can only see Noctis, can only see how he suffers—and Noctis has always suffered in ways that Ignis can do nothing for, but never so _prominently_. Never with the feeling of an hourglass on its last few grains of sand, trickling away to some horrific climax.

Noctis sighs in his sleep, then rolls over, putting his back to Ignis.

Ignis hates to see him in pain, but he can’t help but be proud of how strong Noctis is becoming. Of the _king_ Noctis is becoming.

The next morning, they set off to the northwest towards the Myrlwood, following rumours of a potential Royal Tomb. They run into a few battles along the way. Ignis and Noctis team up to take down a basilisk.

“Let nothing stand in your way,” Ignis tells him as they stand back-to-back, making ready to strike.

“You’ve got my back?” Noctis asks, the hint of a smile in his voice.

“Always.”

 

Ignis is twenty-two years old, and though it sounds like something out of one of Gladio’s two-bit romance novels, the worst thing about losing his sight is no longer being able to see Noctis.

He sits at the prince’s bedside and feels, because he can’t look. He feels with his hands, fingers ghosting across Noctis’ lank hair, his still face, trailing down to his unmoving hand. He feels with his nerve endings, the insistent _burn_ on his face, in his head and in his eyes; the uncomfortable pressure of the bandage around them. He feels with his heart, saddened and angered and confused and terrified.

The one thing that runs continually through Ignis’ head is that there must be a way to fix this. There must be a solution. But when he thinks that, he doesn’t think first of his eyesight—there’s part of him that childishly thinks the bandages will come off and he’ll _see_ and it’ll be okay. No. He thinks of Pryna’s vision. Of the knowledge that, all along, they’ve been guarding Noctis, keeping him alive, to ultimately lead him to his death.

_Fix this_ , he tells himself. _You’re supposed to be the master tactician. Top of the class. Asset to the Crownsguard. The smart one—the one with the plan! There’s a solution, you just haven’t found it. Fix it, fix it, fix it!_

But no matter how much he searches his own mind, he comes up blank. And still blind.

Eventually, Noctis wakes, but it’s several more days before he manages to get out of bed. Ignis sits with him whenever he can. Eventually he memorises the layout of the room, and finally stops bumping his hip on the chair, or his knees on the end of the bed.

The weak solution he comes up with is to suggest to Noctis that they stop. Turn back. Give up.

Needless to say, it doesn’t go down well.

The next time Ignis visits him, Noctis sounds like he’s been crying again—breath uneven and congested, voice hoarse and watery. He takes a deep breath as Ignis sinks down carefully on the end of the bed.

“If you want to go back to Lucis,” Noctis says measuredly, “I won’t stop you. I understand.”

Quite against his will, Ignis’ jaw drops open. Not much surprises him anymore, but this is _well_ beyond the pale. “I—” he begins. He has to clear his throat. “That is _not_ what I was implying earlier. I assure you.”

“Right,” Noctis says tightly.

“Wherever you go Noct, I will _always_ follow you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“Right,” Noctis says again. He makes a sound like a swallowed-down sob. “Always,” he whispers.

“Always,” Ignis repeats.

 

Ignis is twenty-two years old, and all the astronomy books he’s ever read insist that the world revolves around the sun. A long time ago he realised that _his_ world follows a different logic. His world revolves around the boy with eyes that mimic the spectrum of the sky—from lucid blue, to stormy grey, even the pinkish-red of the most fiery sunsets. His world revolves around the boy who shares a name with the night, and if that means living in darkness, Ignis has long since accepted that.

On the boat ride back to Lucis from Niflheim, Ignis spends most of his time below decks taking inventory. Prompto and Gladio seemed to sense that this excuse is a pretence, and were kind enough to leave him to it.

He sits on the floor with one of Noctis’ spare shirts in his hands. He doesn’t know whether or not it’s clean, since Noctis packed his bag himself and didn’t bother to fold anything. By touch, there is no difference between clean and unclean. Ignis holds the shirt up to his nose. Sure enough, it smells of old sweat and deodorant, along with something distinctly _Noctis_. Not a scent that Ignis can put a proper descriptor to, because the only word that comes to mind is: _Noct_.

He feels a tickle at the back of his throat, which quickly upgrades to a scratching. A sob, in the form of a small wild animal fighting its way up his throat. He lets it out.

It’s unsanitary, perhaps, but he buries his face in the shirt and just _breathes_ and tries not to think of Noctis, naïve and unaware, being absorbed into the Crystal. He tries not to think of the next time he’ll see him, and the fate he’ll have no choice but to lead him to. Because Noctis is too good to choose himself over the world. But he  _is_ Ignis' world.

_Fix it_ , says that old voice in his head. For a moment he casts around for _something_. There must be something Ignis can do to bring Noctis back _now_ , to banish the daemons without…

He sobs again, and feels tears spilling from his unmarred (yet unseeing) eye, soaking into Noctis’ unwashed shirt.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispers, fists clenched in the soft fabric. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This _really_ got away from me. It was supposed to just be a few vignettes, but then the one with the stasis just got out of control, and... yeah I'm making excuses. But you MAY have noticed up the top that it says 1/2 chapters, because hey! Guess what? Verse 2 coming soon! Probably in like a day or so, it won't be super long. Just, y'know. I couldn't decide whether or not to have this follow the canon timeline or the Episode Ignis Verse 2 timeline, so I thought--WHY NOT BOTH? :D
> 
> Anyway, even though I'm technically not finished with this, Ignoct Week _is_ finished. It was my first time participating in a fan week, and I had SO much fun. And I learned a lot. I just... argh I shouldn't even be awake right now so I can't gather my thoughts, but just asjfhjdkhf I HAD FUN and thank you to everyone involved who made it so.  <3 
> 
> I have no idea what sort of stuff I'm going to post next. I have ideas, but I also have busy times coming up, in, like, a day. Yay. But as always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/). :)


	2. Verse Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It'll be up in a couple of days," she says, then doesn't finish it until 3 weeks later. "It won't be very long," she says, and then it's nearly equal in length to the first chapter. The moral of the story is: I need to keep my big mouth shut and not make promises I know I won't keep. :)
> 
> In any case, it's finally here, and I hope you enjoy it.

Ignis is eight years old, and the paintings in the antechamber to the throne room fill him with a sense of awe, undercut by a terror he can’t explain.

“I don’t like them, too,” Noctis says, when Ignis tries to explain this feeling while they sit in the garden sharing a box of blackcurrant juice.

“You don’t like them, _either_ ,” Ignis corrects. “I don’t not like them, Noct, it’s not that. They’re just… scary.”

Noctis makes a face. “They’re s’posed to tell the future,” he says distastefully. “ _My_ future. But I don’t ever wanna look like that guy in the painting! He’s wearing a bath robe!”

Ignis almost chokes on a sip of juice as a laugh surges up his throat. “Well, I guess you have no choice,” he teases, once he recovers.

“Nuh-uh.” Noctis folds his arms and shakes his head. “I’m gonna wear what I wanna wear. And do what _I_ wanna do!”

“Okay, Noct,” Ignis says, smiling as he passes over the nearly-empty juice box. “What do you want to do?”

Noctis raises the straw to his mouth, narrowing his eyes at Ignis as he inhales the last dribble of juice. Air gurgles through the straw. He lowers the box and a hand darts out, tapping Ignis’ shoulder. “You’re it!” he exclaims, then takes off running, tossing the empty juice box aside.

 

Ignis is fourteen years old, and ever since the radio broadcast of Lady Lunafreya’s ascension as Oracle two days ago, Noctis has been almost as quiet as he was when he first returned from Tenebrae. It worries Ignis—he doesn’t want to go back to those days when he could hardly get two words out of his young friend and charge.

It worries him even more when he comes into Noctis’ room one day to find the prince absent, open notebook abandoned at the end of the bed. Ignis knows he shouldn’t look—the notebook is Noctis’ only connection to Lady Lunafreya, and it means a lot to him—but his feet carry him to the bed anyway. The most recent correspondence from the young Oracle is a coin neatly and firmly taped to the page, the embossed image of a flower on it’s gleaming surface. Below this, in neat cursive, is a single sentence: _It is time for me to answer the call._

With a heavy sigh, Ignis leaves the room and heads for the ground floor courtyard. Once there, he finds the window with the broken lock, and (with some difficulty, since he’s grown much taller in the past year) crawls through.

Noctis doesn’t prove very difficult to find: Ignis knows all of his favourite spots, having been inveigled into accompanying Noctis on his escapades far too many times to count. The prince is sitting in the middle of a small clearing, knees to his chest, staring up at the sky between the treetops. Ignis stops at the edge of the clearing, knowing that Noctis will have heard him coming—but if he did, the prince shows no sign.

“Noct?”

Only now does Noctis acknowledge his presence with a small turn of the head, a nod, before looking back to the sky.

Frowning, Ignis sits beside him, glancing upwards. The clouds are gathering in a white-and-grey patchwork overhead: not much to look at, but Noctis seems transfixed. Or he’s just avoiding Ignis’ gaze.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” says Ignis. “You should come inside.”

“You go.”

Ignis closes his eyes and keeps his mouth shut. Noctis is almost impossible to deal with when he’s like this. The best way, he’s learned, is to wait. He just hopes that Noctis opens up before the sky does.

After a few more silent minutes, the sky has grown dark with barely-restrained rainclouds, and Noctis finally speaks. “What does it mean?” he asks. “To have a calling?”

Ignis thinks for a second. “I suppose it’s synonymous with a destiny,” he replies. “A duty you must fulfil.”

“Yeah, but why? Why can’t someone else do it?” Finally, Noctis looks at him.

Ignis can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“Like, why am _I_ the Chosen King or whatever? Why is Luna the Oracle? There are millions of people, so why us?”

It’s an unanswerable question, Ignis knows. “Noct,” he says softly, “you could ask me why some people are born blind or deaf, or some male and some female, and the answer would be the same.”

“What?”

“They just are. _You_ just are. Anyone else in your position could wonder the same thing.”

“I know.” Noctis frowns and glares at the grass between them. “I just mean, like… why can’t we choose? Why do we have to do what the Crystal or the Astrals or the universe tells us to?”

Ignis thinks he feels a raindrop no bigger than a speck of dust on his cheek. Noctis doesn’t even turn thirteen for several more months, yet he’s already pondering heavily existential questions. Beneath his concern, Ignis can’t help but feel a little impressed. “Do you really expect me to have answers?” he asks gently.

Noctis meets his eyes, and the sadness in his own reminds Ignis of King Regis so much that he feels his heart tighten. “Not really. But… you get what I mean, right?”

It’s definitely started to rain. The scattered drops have grown, and Ignis can see glistening spots on Noctis’ forearms. He nods slowly. “We really should go in.”

“I guess.” Noctis peers up again, collecting a few raindrops on his cheeks and forehead, then sighs tiredly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

Ignis is twenty-two years old, and while the logical part of him is reprimanding the stupidity of his decision to play along with Ardyn’s little game, a smaller and yet dangerously compelling sector of his mind reminds him that this could be a perfect opportunity.

 

Ignis is twenty-two years old, and he can feel the power of the Ring of the Lucii searing through his every cell.

He can’t see, but for now he doesn’t need to. He knows where Ardyn is, the exact distance between himself and the Chancellor. He knows how to set his blades alight and _strike, strike, strike_.

He’s being irrational. He _knows_ he’s being irrational, but he can’t make himself stop. It’s too late, now. He didn’t come here for nothing. He didn’t put the ring on for nothing.

He won’t let them take Noctis.

Not Ardyn, not the Crystal, not the Astrals, not _oblivion_. He’s being irrational, overwhelmed with pain and fear and rage, but he won’t let Noctis’ life be the price of worldly salvation.

If Ignis can do something about that… Well, isn’t it his duty? His destiny? His _calling_?

He can feel the power fading. Where it leaves, pain floods in to take its place.

He knows he’s dying. He knows Noct will be here soon. He knows the threat of Ardyn Izunia has been neutralised for now. He knows Noct will be safe.

It’s irrational. But sometimes being irrational is worth it.

_“Ignis!_ ”

 

Ignis is twenty-two years old, and he’s still alive.

Gladio and Prompto fill him in. On what happened on their end after Altissia; what happened when they found him half-dead in front of the Crystal. He doesn’t fully remember it—just bits and pieces, like flashes of memory from long ago. Putting on the ring… fighting Ardyn… Noctis. He’s still alive because Noctis took up the ring, took up command of the Crystal, _ordered_ it to heal Ignis. He still has a few nicks and cuts that will probably scar, but he’s alive, and grateful to be.

He was unconscious for a long time—long enough to miss the long trip back to Altissia, and a few days thereafter. Most of what Ignis remembers after the ring’s power started to fade is… light. Brilliant, golden light, quite unlike the spectral blue of the Crystal. And he remembers Noctis, standing in front of that blasted rock, countenance flooded with resolve.

Everything, for nothing.

Ignis tells Gladio and Prompto everything he learned while he was on his own. About Ardyn and his brother, about the blood price of dispelling both him and the starscourge from the world forevermore.

“Noct has to _die_!?” Prompto bursts out. Gladio’s scowl deepens, but he says nothing.

“So it goes,” Ignis sighs. “I’d… hoped to change how things were supposed to go. Defeat Ardyn, offer my own life in place of Noct’s, but…”

“You can’t guarantee that would have worked,” Gladio says soberly. “The Lucii and the Astrals are two different entities. It was a dumbass thing for you to do.”

“Whoa, hey!” says Prompto, but he’s standing close enough to the bed for Ignis to grab his wrist before he can continue.

“I know it was,” he says, looking directly at Gladio, who stands partially silhouetted in front of the window. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Prompto places his own hand over Ignis’. “Neither of us can say that we wouldn’t have done the same,” he says. “Hell, I _definitely_ would have, but my life probably isn’t worth nearly enough, anyway!”

His attempt at a joke, dark and self-deprecating as it is, falls a little flat. Ignis offers a half-hearted smile nonetheless, squeezes Prompto’s wrist one last time, then lets go. “I’m grateful to Noct,” he says. “My noblest of intentions did, I believe, deal a crippling blow to the enemy. For now.” He gazes through the window, at the cloudy sky. It’s still light, even at four in the evening. A few days ago, 4 P.M. was cast in complete darkness, night having long fallen. Now, two days after the confrontation at Zegnautus Keep, darkness has just started to descend upon the day.

“To banish the darkness in entirety, Noctis must become a vessel for the light,” Ignis continues. “Because Ardyn Izu—no, Ardyn Lucis Caelum has long been a vessel of the darkness.”

“Creepy to think we slept in the same camper van as him,” Prompto mutters.

“ _You_ might have slept, I sure as hell didn’t,” says Gladio.

“Nor did I. It was easy to tell, even then, that the Imperial Chancellor was not the ‘man of no consequence’ he claimed to be,” says Ignis.

“No kidding,” says Prompto.

“In any case, I believe that channelling not just the light of the Crystal, but also the power of kings past, and of the Astrals—power _greater_ than any one god—is why the blood sacrifice is necessary,” Ignis explains.

“All that power, in one tiny human body,” says Gladio. “It’d tear anyone to pieces.”

“Precisely.”

“So… what do we do?” asks Prompto. “I mean… we’re not just gonna let Noct _die_ , are we?”

Both of them look at Ignis expectantly, and he realises that, with Noctis in reflection for the next decade (he’s trying not to think about that part too much), he’s now their leader in absentia—not just of their little group, or even the remaining Crownsguard, but of all Lucis. As Hand of the King, that responsibility falls to Ignis.

“I should think the answer is quite obvious,” he says with a forced smile. “We simply find the light a new vessel.”

Ignis is twenty-four years old, and he’d known from the beginning that finding a better way to banish the darkness would not be so simple. Gladio and Prompto are in on that fact, however—had been from the beginning.

Two years into the Decade Without Noctis, little progress has been made.

Most of all because they don’t really know where to start. They’ve recruited basically everyone they know for help, but they still haven’t gotten past ideas and theories. It’s too difficult to comprehend that they, as mere mortals with little in the way of special powers—beyond what they’re afforded from their connection to the Crown of Lucis—can possibly put an end to an immortal being who’s lived far longer than all of them put together, _and_ the starscourge.

Similarly difficult to comprehend is that Ignis has somehow survived the last two years without Noctis. Two years without his dear friend, the person most important to him—his _reason_ for existing, as dramatic and unhealthy as it sounds. His life has entirely revolved around Noctis for as long as he can remember. Without that axis, his world seems to stop spinning for a time as it adjusts to a new purpose: finding a way to _save_ Noctis. In eight years, the axis will return, and he steadfastly refuses to let it be torn away from him a second time.

Beyond his own selfish reasons, he knows Noctis deserves to live. He loves his king, of course—but it’s the _boy_ he would do anything for. For whom he’d been willing to give up his own life, an act as selfless as it was selfish.

Ignis had never really thought of himself as selfish before getting the chance to analyse his actions in Zegnautus Keep. Nowadays he’s of the opinion that selfishness and selflessness are two sides of the same coin, easily flipped.

Eight years. Eight more years without Noctis. It hardly bears thinking about.

His sleep schedule, like everyone else’s, is affected by the gradually shortening days. He sleeps sporadically—whenever he can grab an hour or two, here or there. Often when he does, he dreams uncomfortable, restless dreams filled with over-bright golden light shining directly in his eyes, and a melodic but resonant voice speaking words in a language he knows but doesn’t understand.

Eight years can’t possibly pass quickly enough. Yet, it’s a good thing that there’s still so long to go—because it means they have more time. Eight years.

 

Ignis is twenty-eight years old, and he can’t give up, because to do so will condemn Noctis to die. He refuses to let that happen. On his worst days, Ignis has to remind himself what’s at stake.

_What if it’s already too late? What if he never returns?_

Ignis has no choice but to believe that Noctis _will_ return. He has no choice. He refuses to entertain the alternative.

The daylight, moonlight, and starlight are all long gone. The sky is obscured by a virulent black fog—thick clouds of plasmodia, feeding off the planet’s very atmosphere. It’s a terrifying thing to consider, that the world’s life is being leeched away by millions of tiny parasites. Even more terrifying that they still have to come up with a way to banish them that won’t result in their king’s death. They still don’t really know how they’re going to achieve that.

What they don’t know far outweighs what they do.

He tries not to, but Ignis pays close attention to the time they have left. Four years. Less. More than enough time, in theory. Yet, the last four years haven’t yielded much in the way of progress.

Ignis is barely able to keep the overwhelming sense of foreboding from devolving into all-out panic. Barely.

 

Ignis is thirty years old, and he thinks he might finally understand how to beat back the darkness without forfeiting Noctis’ life.

It’s ludicrously cliché, and Ignis would never believe it if he didn’t live it, but the solution—or at least the thread he’s certain will lead him towards the solution—comes to him in a dream.

In the dream, he’s in Altissia. Eight years ago, the cursed day of the rite. Except he’s not running frantically between canals and cutting down MTs the way he remembers. He’s at the altar. White fur, dark eyes; Pryna cocks her head at him, and then he sees light. Golden light. The same golden light he’s been seeing in his dreams for the years since this day.

He sees the three sharp points of the Trident. Loose blonde hair, whipped by fierce winds. White fabric; a quickly spreading bloodstain. Ardyn, expression twisted and hateful and… scared? Then Noctis, emblazoned with the full power of the Armiger—as much of it as his body can handle. Golden light. Golden light. All across Lucis, golden light.

It fades, and Ignis wakes. It’s dark. Its’s always dark.

He has an idea.

 

Ignis is thirty-two years old. Seeing Noctis again after so _long_ is like the most intense episode of vertigo he’s ever experienced.

Noctis looks unmistakeably like himself, and yet completely different. The hair, the stubble, the refined facial structure. There’s a whole new kind of strength and determination in his midnight-blue eyes. Yet, when Ignis hugs him, Noctis feels so… _small_ , somehow even more frail than before. A monsoon of protectiveness rushes over Ignis, the kind he hasn’t felt in ten years. He relishes it.

“I never got the chance to thank you,” he says into Noctis’ ear.

“No need,” Noctis murmurs.

“Or to apologise.”

“ _No need_ ,” he repeats. “I would have done the same.” There’s the air of a joke in his tone.

Ignis never wants to let go of him again, but he forces himself to pull back and hold Noctis by the shoulders. “Yes, well, we’ll be avoiding that eventuality if we can.” He looks him up and down. “Did you even _eat_ anything in the last ten years?” he can’t help but to ask.

Noctis blinks. “Uh, probably not. It really doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, it’s…” He, too, looks his own body up and down. “Bizarre.”

“Got that right,” agrees Gladio, reminding them both of his and Prompto’s continued existence a few feet away. “Never thought _you’d_ be capable of growing facial hair.”

Noctis doesn’t rise to the bait like he might have a decade earlier, but the four of them fall into easy, teasing banter as if that decade never happened. It feels nice. Normal.

It _has_ happened, though, and soon enough they’re explaining the plan to Noctis. Explaining to him that he doesn’t have to die—there’s another way to usurp Ardyn and cleanse the star, Astrals be damned.

Noctis sits there quietly as he listens, and holds his silence for a good minute following. Eventually he says, voice so soft even Ignis can barely hear it, “We can’t be sure that it will work.”

“We have to at least try, Noct,” says Prompto. “You think we’re just gonna let you waltz in there and give up your life?”

“Of course not,” Noctis says, and is about to continue when Ignis interrupts.

“At the very least,” he says, “it would be rather ungracious of you to let our decade of preparation go to waste. Saying this as your royal adviser, of course, your Majesty.”

Gladio and Prompto snicker. Noctis frowns. “Fine, then,” he says. “But there are two parts to this: getting rid of Ardyn, and bringing back the dawn. If this doesn’t work for one or the other of them, I’ll do whatever I have to.”

Ignis knows it’s fair, but he still doesn’t like it. He nods.

“We’d better get going, then,” says Gladio. “Don’t wanna keep everyone waiting.”

 

Ignis is thirty-two years old. It’s now or never.

Ardyn stands before them, atop the throne like a child trying to reach a high shelf. Corrupted red spectral weapons swirl around him in a malevolent maelstrom. Noctis’ own Armiger looks pitiful in comparison. Thirteen to however many Ardyn has—possibly over a hundred. But they each glow blue and pure, and the ring rests confidently on the middle finger of Noctis’ right hand. To this hand he summons the Sword of the Father, given to him less than an hour ago by the last of the Oracular line. Ravus had also given Noctis his blessing, and that, Ignis hoped, would prove powerful.

To his left hand, Noctis summons the Trident of the Oracle. He tosses it in Ignis’ direction and turns back in time to deflect Ardyn’s first strike.

Ignis catches the Trident, and he has to hold it tightly in both hands to stop it from wrenching itself away from him. It resists him, struggling to return to its master as Noctis activates the Armiger’s full power.

Gladio and Prompto summon their own weapons and rush forwards, standing in front of Ignis as if to defend him. Noctis and Ardyn are a blur of blue and red as they dart around the throne room, trying and failing to land a substantial hit on one another.

Ignis has to act quickly. This is the part he’s least certain of, and, unfortunately, the most important part. He closes his eyes and plants the end of the trident into the throne room floor. He concentrates, remembers the golden light that’s been haunting him for ten years. Remembers the _what_ behind the light; the _who_. Summons its warmth.

Something gives way, and the memory of golden light fades in favour of the real thing. It floods his head, flowing down his arms and into the trident. Or does it flow from the trident, up his arms, and into his head? Either way, he lets out an involuntary gasp, and his eyes fly open.

Ardyn and Noctis have paused their battle, floating on opposite sides of the room. Frustratingly, Ardyn doesn’t look to have a scratch on him, while there’s a sizeable rivulet of blood running down the side of Noctis’ face and several tears in his clothes. But he also now glows with the same soft golden light emanating from the Trident.

“Now, Noct!” Ignis shouts, as the Trident starts to quiver violently beneath his hands.

Noctis meets his eyes briefly, and nods, summoning the Sword of the Father back to his hand. He holds it reverently in front of him, and closes his eyes. The Ring of the Lucii glows brightly on his finger.

It’s all Ignis can do to keep a hold on the Trident as the golden light shoots upwards—straight through the ceiling, though it leaves no visible mark. Golden light seems to fill the throne room, forcing them all to squint.

The Trident finally escapes Ignis’ grip. But it doesn’t go to Noctis to rejoin his Armiger. It flies to the side of the figure floating behind Ardyn.

She consists only of golden light, but she’s recognisable nonetheless. Her hair and dress flow about her, unhindered by gravity. She reaches around Ardyn’s head and covers his eyes with her radiant hands.

Ardyn lets out a blood-curdling scream and thrashes about, but the Oracle’s grip is firm.

On the other side of the room, Noctis has done well to hold his concentration. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, sword in his hands, golden and blue light fighting for dominance of the glowing aura that envelops him. His Armiger fans out, weapons lining up on either side of him, as if waiting for his command to march into battle.

The Sword of the Father rises up out of his hands, fading to blue. Ignis can see Noctis’ hands shaking under the strain of what he’s asking the Ring of the Lucii to do. Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto can only watch. And hope.

Noctis lets out a coarse yell of his own, mostly drowned out by Ardyn’s continued shrieks, and clutches his wrist as ghostly figures pour forth from the ring. Each in turn claims its weapon, and each in turn drives it through Ardyn’s chest.

Ignis almost feels sorry for the ex-Chancellor. But a darker part of him feels the satisfaction of revenge.

In a moment, after another blinding burst of light, it’s all over. Ardyn is gone. the golden spectre of Lady Lunafreya is gone. The Lucii are gone. The sky outside the windows is briefly consumed by golden light, then fades to the blue-grey of early dawn.

It’s completely silent. They all stand there for a moment, stunned, unable to believe that _it actually worked_.

Then Noctis collapses, and Ignis is at his side in a second—Gladio and Prompto close behind.

“I’m okay,” Noctis insists tiredly. “Just… exhausted.” His face is covered in blood from some head wound hidden in his hair, and the rest of him is littered with nicks and cuts. Nothing serious. Ignis holds him in his lap, and though Noctis is somehow still conscious, his body is completely limp. He smiles. “We did it.”

Ignis’ eyes flood and nearly overflow. _We did it_. “Yes,” he gasps. “We did. And you’re alive.”

Noctis nods weakly, then passes out. Paranoid, Ignis checks his pulse—his heartbeat is strong and steady. The king lives on. _Long live the king_.

“We really _did_ do it,” Prompto is saying behind him. “We—we _did_ it! We saved the world, guys!”

“I don’t recall _you_ doing much,” Gladio points out, though when Ignis glances up at them he sees the broad grin stretched across Gladio’s face.

“Doesn’t matter!” Prompto says, literally jumping up and down. He points at the window. “Look at that! It’s _dawn_! And Noct is _alive_! We freakin’ _did_ it, guys!”

Ignis smiles. “So we did.” He, too, feels completely drained. He didn’t do nearly as much as Noctis, but what he _did_ do—and he’s still in disbelief about having done it—has taken a lot out of him. That, and the release of all the tension he’s been holding for the past decade.

They really have done it.

The dawn is here.

Ardyn is gone.

And Noctis is still alive—unconscious, but alive, and safe in Ignis’ arms.

 

Ignis is thirty-three years old, and he was used to pain and misfortune for so long that he still sometimes finds it hard to believe, how _good_ everything is now. The days have returned, more brilliant than ever. Some daemons remain, in the deepest depths of Lucian dungeons, but they’ll be eradicated soon enough. Insomnia is well on its way towards restoration. And, best of all—Noctis lives on, as ever the rotational axis of planet Ignis Scientia. Surely there has to be some catch, some horror waiting on the horizon.

Sometimes his disbelief and paranoia is so great that he catches himself staring at Noctis, half-expecting to wake up any second. Ten years was a long time. It’s been less than one year since Noctis’ return.

Noctis catches him staring, and smiles. “Still here,” he says.

“I know,” Ignis says, with a returning smile. “Your Majesty.”

Noctis rolls his eyes and sits back from his desk, casting a distasteful eye across the paperwork littering the polished mahogany. “You just love that word.”

“There’s a certain satisfaction to using it, yes,” Ignis says, sitting down across from his king. “It tastes like victory.”

Now it’s Noctis’ turn to stare at _him_. “I… can’t imagine what you guys went through in those ten years.”

“Don’t, Noct. It’s not your fault.”

He drops his eyes. “I know, it’s just…” He swallows. “None of us will ever get that decade back.”

Including everyone in that statement is Noctis’ way of indirectly expressing his feelings without outright admitting to anything. That much hasn’t changed. It makes Ignis’ chest hurt, though: Noctis didn’t have to sacrifice his entire life, just a third of it. It’s a difficult pill to swallow, Ignis can only imagine.

Yet, if Noctis hadn’t spent those ten years in the Crystal, absorbing its power into the ring, they likely never would have been able to do what they had.

“I suppose there was no way of getting around a sacrifice of some sort,” Ignis says carefully. “But as long as we’re still alive, the past doesn’t matter so much as how we proceed despite it.”

“I guess so.” Noctis smiles again. “You never gave up on me, did you?”

Ignis wants to admit that, several times, he nearly did. When finding an answer seemed impossible, when it seemed completely improbable that there really was a way to save the world _and_ Noctis’ life, Ignis very nearly threw in the towel. He figured, once it was all over, he could _really_ throw in the towel—permanently.

But what a waste that would be, after everything they’d been through—and not just the two of them, but Gladio, and Prompto, and everyone else who had helped them. Cor, Aranea, Iris, Talcott, Monica, Dustin, Cindy, Cid, Sania, Dino, Vyv. They all wanted to see the light restored, and they all wanted Noctis to live. And they needed Ignis in order to achieve that.

So he’d kept going.

He wants to tell Noctis all of this, admit to all his follies—cleanse them through confession, seek forgiveness for his sins. But it isn’t the time. He’ll tell all later, maybe when Noctis is more settled into his new role, in this new time, in this newly-dawned era.

It isn’t the time for detail, so he summarises:

“Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm honest, this didn't turn out how I wanted it to. Writing this thing gave me _ALL KINDS_ of grief and I basically had to rewrite most of it just so that I could stop being confused by my own story. The first version, which I couldn't finish because I had no idea what was going on, was very far removed from the focus of the first chapter--which was, of course, the bond between Ignis and Noctis. So I tried to bring that back in, and take the excessive plot detail out, for the sake of not confusing you guys as much as I confused myself. 
> 
> Nonetheless. My primary objective with this 'verse two' was to write a happy(ish) ending. And I managed to resist the urge to make it overtly pessimistic! Good job, me. Thank you.
> 
> uhhhhhh [tumblr](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/) is where i'm at, if you're into that.


End file.
